by Paul Sussman
'But do we have any hard evidence? I don't want guesses. I want facts.'
'Well, I haven't seen the Cairo medical report yet . . .'
'So it could be that the manner of death wasn't the same. You know how newspapers exaggerate. Especially rags like al-Ahram.'
'I haven't seen the medical report yet,' repeated Khalifa, 'but I know it'll show they were both killed in the same way. The cases are connected, I'm sure of it.'
'Go on then,' sighed Hassani wearily. 'What's your theory?'
'I think Nayar found a tomb . . .'
'I should have known tombs would come into it somewhere!'
'Or someone else found one and Nayar got wind of it. Either way, it was something big. He went to Cairo. Sold Iqbar a few objects. Got paid. Came back. Blew the money. Probably thought he was set up for life. Except that someone else knew about the tomb. And that someone else didn't like the idea of sharing the spoils.'
'This is speculation, Khalifa. Pure speculation.'
The detective ignored him and ploughed on.
'Maybe Nayar took something valuable and they wanted it back. Maybe the mere fact that he knew about the tomb was enough to sign his death warrant. Probably both. Whatever the case, these people caught up with him, tortured him to find out who else knew about the discovery, then went up to Cairo and did the same to Iqbar. And if we don't catch them, they're going to do the same to someone else. Have done the same, for all we know.'
'And who are these people? Who are these lunatics you're saying are prepared to butcher people for the sake of a few dusty old objects?'
He sounded as if he was humouring an over-imaginative child. Khalifa paused a moment before answering.
'I have reason to suspect Sayf al-Tha'r is involved.'
Hassani exploded. 'For God's sake, Khalifa! As if it's not enough to say we've got some marauding serial killer on our hands, now you've got to bring bloody Sayf al-Tha'r into it. What's the evidence?'
'I have a source.'
'What source?'
'Someone who works at Deir el-Bahri. At the temple. He used to be a guard.'
'Used to?'
'He was injured in the incident.'
'And now? What does this source do now?'
Khalifa bit his lip, knowing what Hassani's reaction would be. 'He runs the site toilets.'
'Oh marvellous!' roared the chief. 'Khalifa's great source: a bloody toilet attendant.'
'He knows more about what's going on around Luxor than anyone else I know. He's totally reliable.'
'I'm sure he is when it comes to scrubbing shit. But for police work? Do me a favour.'
Khalifa lit a cigarette and stared out of the window. The chief's office looked directly out over Luxor temple, one of the best views of the monument anywhere in Luxor. A shame it had to be wasted on a fool like Hassani, he thought. From outside came the amplified call of a muezzin summoning the faithful to mid-afternoon prayers.
'Every dealer in town is afraid,' said Khalifa eventually. 'Everybody I've spoken to about this case has been afraid. There's something going on, sir.'
'There most certainly is,' snapped Hassani. 'And it's in your head.'
'If I could just go up to Cairo for a day, have a poke around . . .'
'It's a wild-goose chase, man. This Nayder or whatever he was called was cut up by someone he owed money to . . . You did say he owed money, didn't you?'
'Yes, sir, but . . .'
'Or by someone he'd insulted . . . You did say he insulted people, didn't you?'
Khalifa shrugged.
'And Iqbar was cut up by a thief, if he was cut up at all, which knowing the reporting in al-Ahram he probably wasn't. They weren't cut up by the same person. You're reading too much into it.'
'I've just got this feeling . . .'
'Feelings have nothing to do with police work. Facts do. Clear thinking does. Hard evidence does. Feelings just confuse the issue.'
'Like on the al-Hamdi case?'
Hassani glared at him furiously.
The case of Ommaya al-Hamdi had shocked them all, even Hassani. Her body had been found at the bottom of a well, naked, strangled. She was only fourteen.
A boy from her village, a retard, had subsequently been arrested and, under intense questioning, confessed to the crime. For some reason, however, Khalifa had been uneasy, sensing things weren't quite as straightforward as they seemed. His doubts had incurred the wrath of Hassani and jibes from his colleagues, but he'd ignored them and pursued the investigation independently, eventually proving that the culprit was actually the girl's cousin, who had been infatuated with her. No recognition had ever been given to his role in solving the crime, but since then his hunches had been treated with a little more respect.
'OK,' said the chief inspector, 'what is it precisely you're asking for?'
'I want to go up to Cairo,' said Khalifa, sensing his boss was weakening. 'Find out about the Iqbar murder, see if that case can throw any light on the one we're dealing with here. I only need a day.'
Hassani swivelled in his chair so that he was facing the window. His fingers drummed on the desk. There was a knock on the door.
'Wait!' he shouted.
'I'll take the night train,' said Khalifa. 'Save the expense of flying.'
'Damn right you'll take the night train!' snapped Hassani. 'We're not a bloody tour company!' He swivelled back to face the detective. 'One day. That's all you get. Just one day. Go tonight. Come back tomorrow night. And I want a report on my desk first thing the next morning. Clear?'
'Yes, sir.'
Khalifa stood and made for the door.
'I hope you're right about this,' growled Hassani. 'For your sake. Because if you're not I'm going to think even less of you than I already do.'
'And if I am right, sir?'
'Get out!'
21
CAIRO
'Where you go?' asked the taxi driver.
'Anywhere,' said Daniel. 'The middle of town.'
'Midan Tahrir?'
'Yes, that's fine.'
They drove for a couple of minutes, then Daniel leaned forward. 'No, not Midan Tahrir. Zamalek. Take us to Zamalek. Sharia Abdul Azim.'
The driver nodded and Daniel sat back.
'Where are we going?' asked Tara.
'To see my fixer, Mohammed Samali. Probably the least trustworthy person in Cairo, but at the moment I can't think of anyone else who can help us.'
They sat back and stared out of the windows, the taxi slowly shunting its way through the traffic. After a couple of minutes Daniel reached out and took Tara's hand. Neither of them spoke or looked at the other.
Zamalek was a plush, leafy district of villas and high-rise apartment buildings. They pulled up in front of an exclusive-looking modern block, with well-tended gardens and a glass-fronted foyer and, having paid off the driver, climbed the steps to the main door. There was a polished metal intercom panel in the wall. Daniel pressed buzzer 43.
They waited thirty seconds and then he pressed again. There was another long wait, then a voice echoed out of the panel.
'Yes?'
'Samali? It's Daniel Lacage.'
'Daniel, what a wonderful surprise.' The voice was soft, musical, slightly lisping. 'You catch me at a rather inopportune moment. Would it be possible for you to—'
'It's urgent. I need to talk. Now.'
There was a pause.
'Wait downstairs for five minutes and then come up. Fourth floor, as you know.'
There was a click and they pushed the door open, stepping into a carpeted foyer, the air around them suddenly cool and air-conditioned. As requested, they waited for five minutes and then took the lift up to the fourth floor. Samali's flat was midway along a carpeted corridor with prints of ancient monuments hung along the walls. They knocked, waited and then heard the soft pad of approaching feet.
'Be careful what you say to him,' whispered Daniel. 'And keep the box in your bag. It's best he doesn't see it. Samali would sell his own
mother if he thought it would turn in a profit. The fewer details he knows the better.'
There was the rattle of various locks being undone and the door swung open.
'My apologies for keeping you waiting. Please, do come in.'
Samali was tall and very thin, completely bald, with a faint sheen to his skin as though he was wearing moisturizer. He turned and led them down a hallway into a large living room, all very minimalist, with pale wood floors, white walls and a scattering of leather and metal furniture. Through a door to the side Tara glimpsed two young boys, one wearing a bathrobe. The door swung to almost immediately, however, and they were gone.
'I don't think we've met,' smiled Samali.
'Tara Mullray,' said Daniel. 'An old friend.'
'How enchanting.'
He stepped forward and took her hand, raising it and kissing the backs of her fingers, his nostrils dilating momentarily, as if he was smelling her skin. He lowered the hand again and waved them both towards a large leather sofa.
'A drink?'
'Whisky,' said Daniel.
'Miss Mullray?'
'The same. Thank you.'
He turned to a drinks cabinet and, removing a decanter, poured out two glasses, clinking an ice cube into each. He handed the drinks over and sat down opposite them, picking up a jade cigarette holder and screwing a cigarette into it.
'You're not having one?' asked Daniel.
'I prefer to watch,' said Samali, smiling.
He lit the cigarette and drew deeply on the mouthpiece. His eyebrows were very thin and very dark and, Tara realized suddenly, highlighted with liner.
'So,' he said, 'to what do I owe the pleasure?'
Daniel glanced up at him and then away towards the window, fingers drumming nervously on the edge of the sofa.
'We need help.'
'But of course you do,' said Samali, still smiling.
He turned towards Tara, crossing his legs and smoothing the material of his slacks with his hand.
'I am what is rather crudely termed a fixer, Miss Mullray. A much-maligned species, until someone actually needs something. Then, suddenly, we become indispensable. It is a rewarding vocation' – he waved his hand, indicating the expensive flat – 'although a dispiriting one. A man in my profession soon learns he is never the object of a purely social visit. There is always, what is the word, an agenda.'
He said it jokingly, although in his eyes there was something cold, as if he understood their politeness was just an act and wanted them to know that his was too. He leaned his head back and drew slowly on the cigarette holder, gazing up at the ceiling.
'So,' he said. 'What do you need, Daniel? Problems with your dig permit, is it? Or perhaps Steven Spielberg has expressed an interest in filming your work and you require help with the necessary permissions.'
He chuckled at his joke. Daniel downed his whisky and laid aside the glass.
'I need information,' he said tersely.
'Information!' cooed Samali. 'But how very flattering. That a scholar of your repute should come to me for advice. I really can't think what it might be that I could know and you don't, but please, ask away.'
Daniel hunched forward, the leather upholstery creaking beneath him. Again his eyes flicked up to Samali and again they swerved away towards the window, unwilling to meet the older man's gaze.
'I want to know about Sayf al-Tha'r.'
The briefest hint of a pause.
'Anything in particular?' asked Samali. 'Or just a general resume?'
'I want to know about Sayf al-Tha'r and antiquities.'
Again, a whisper of a hesitation on Samali's part.
'Might I ask why?'
'It's best I don't go into details. For your safety as much as ours. There's a particular antiquity we believe he wants and we need to know why.'
'How very cryptic of you, Daniel.'
He lifted his left hand and began examining the nails. Tara thought she could hear whispering from the room to the side.
'This mysterious antiquity,' said Samali. 'Would I be right in thinking it is in that box in Miss Mullray's bag?'
Neither Tara nor Daniel spoke.
'I take it from your silence that it is.' He flicked his eyes at Tara. 'Might I see it, please?'
She stared at him, then across at Daniel, then down at the knapsack in her lap. There was a silence and then the throaty rasp of Samali's chuckle.
'No doubt Dr Lacage has told you not to show it to me. Another lesson one soon learns in my line of business. That one is very rarely trusted.'
He gazed at them for a moment and then waved his hand.
'It is of no consequence. Keep it to yourselves if you prefer it that way. It simply makes it more difficult for me to answer your question. Like trying to play a hand of poker when one is prevented from seeing all of one's cards.'
He resumed his examination of his nails.
'So you want to know about the Sword of Vengeance and antiquities, do you?' he mused. 'A most perilous line of enquiry. And what, I wonder . . .'
'Is in it for you?' Daniel stood, picked up his glass and crossed to the drinks cabinet, pouring himself another whisky. His hand seemed to be trembling. 'Nothing. I'm asking you to help us out of the goodness of your heart.'
Samali's eyebrows arched upwards. 'Well, well. First I am cast as the fount of all wisdom, then the great philanthropist. By the time we are finished I shall barely know who I am.'
'I can give you a few hundred dollars. Three, maybe four. If that's what it takes.'
Samali tutted. 'Please, Daniel. I might be a self-made man, but at least I've done my self-making in style. I am not a common street whore taking cash handouts in return for services rendered. You can keep your four hundred dollars.'
He took another slow puff on the cigarette holder, smiling faintly, as though he was enjoying Daniel's discomfiture.
'Although, of course, nothing in life is wholly free. Especially information about someone as dangerous as Sayf al-Tha'r. So let's just leave it that you owe me. And one day I might call the debt in. Agreed?'
They stared at each other for a moment and then Daniel downed his drink. 'Agreed.' He poured himself another large shot and returned to the sofa.
Samali's cigarette had burnt down to the butt and, leaning over, he tamped it into a metal ashtray.
'Of course, I have no links with Sayf al-Tha'r's organization. Let that be understood from the start. Anything I tell you is purely hearsay.'